For Your Pleasure

It all began with the “Jump” video. It was a routine weekend...

Wed, 10 Oct 2012 12:59:14 -0400

It all began with the “Jump” video. It was a routine weekend visit to my godparents’ house in Miami, Florida. The year was 1984 and I was four years old. At this time, I was already subsisting on a steady diet of MTV viewing, so it was not unexpected that as soon as I entered my godparents’ home, I greeted them monosyllabically—as any four year old would, I suppose—and plopped down directly in front of the television set. When I say “directly in front of”, I mean I was so close I could taste Martha Quinn’s skin cream. In a pitch-dark family room with the comforting sound of my parents’ voices echoing from the dining room, I witnessed the world premiere of Van Halen’s “Jump”. And it was a spectacle.

The man with the lion’s mane streaked with Sun-In seemed to take up the entire screen as he kicked and lunged about the stage, his body aerodynamically contorting itself in slow-motion. He tossed his hair like a swimsuit model and had the predatory eyes of an animal lurking in my backyard at night. But he was also really funny. Like a birthday party clown but with more jewelry. The other guys were smiley and friendly, too. That one with the yellow zebra jacket seemed to totally enjoy what he was doing to that guitar. They all seemed so darn pleased to be in the presence of this really flexible man with all his great dance costumes. The best part was that it seemed as if they were playing just for me, as if I had willed them onto that softly-lit black stage for my own amusement. The music sounded like robots soaring in a metallic sky or a less frightening version of when the Blue Angels would fly directly over my house and cause the world to shake. The colors, the sounds, the smirking, the gymnastics, the fun, the gaze of the lion-man! I was hooked. I had to see it again.

HBD to DLR.

Something's Always Wrong

Mon, 08 Oct 2012 17:01:03 -0400

When I was thirteen, a lot of terrible things happened. And more bad things took place before then. The ’90s, in general, were not so kind to me. Life stopped being polite and started getting real. Really real. Real, real, real.

Early on in the decade, pop culture’s premium on ‘realness’ emerged: It bit the beautiful slacker’s hand that fed it; it extended itself into slick and sinister virtual realms; and it was filmed by television producers intent on capturing how it imbued the lives of fresh-faced, young folks with an addictive earnestness that viewers would allow to merge with their own inferior realities that constantly betrayed them.

See, there was ‘real’ and then there was real. The latter belonged to us, the regular people whose lives weren’t being filmed, because the media wanted nothing to do with it. I understood this even as a precocious pre-teen quick to jump on the latest fad that primetime Fox, all too liberally, doled out. In 1993, I was wearing chokers and crocheted vests layered over bodysuits that echoed Jane, the drippingly sincere, but oh-so-hip boutique owner and doting wife of Dr. Michael Mancini on Melrose Place. I was twelve. I was insecure and susceptible to the charms of advertising. I bought the sickly sweet perfumes featured in every print ad in Seventeen magazine. I wore them even though they made me gag. Yet, I was media-literate and happily let myself be duped. Smelling like a brothel fronting as a bakery, I was Cindy Crawford confronting the elements of fire and ice. I embraced the sham(e) of it. I was the perfect demographic for the advent of ‘real’.

I knew that when I took off the velvet rope around my neck, my problems would loom much larger than whether or not I should lose my religion to Beverly Hills High’s resident bad boy. Or how I would ever reconcile my friendships with a black woman and male model with my conservative Midwestern upbringing. Were these real concerns, issues to take seriously and digest as a socially-aware consumer? Certainly. Were they germane to negotiating my own conflicted childhood? Well, yes and no.

It’s not really important what sorrowful threads made up my reality because I consciously traded them in for a realer reality so often that the threads started to braid themselves with those I co-opted from cable and Sassy magazine. I wanted the’90s version of an honest life: political activism, bowler hats, coffee, black baggy blazers, Toad the Wet Sprocket. I wanted to discuss the state of the environment with a bearded boy while wearing sensible shoes and my grandmother’s dress. I wanted us to fight about “selling out” our lives to capitalism and then make up in a dark bar with Eddie Vedder ringing in our ears. I wanted to break up with bearded boy unceremoniously and then get a tattoo (a black hole) to celebrate our dissolution. I wanted to live the sloppy, somewhat sad, pop-culture saturated life of Janeane Garofalo’s character in Reality Bites and have meaningless sex with guys in bands until my heart hurt constantly because I was just being true to myself. I wanted to lose my job, lose my purpose, lose myself in melancholy and inhabit the warbling chords of a Cure song that wasn’t “Friday, I’m in Love”. I wanted to live in Cameron Crowe’s Singles, but in a grimmer version that sucked slightly less.

But let’s be real: I was in 6^th grade. I didn’t know what the hell I wanted. I just wanted to escape from a bedroom that was always dark even though it was filled with pink stuff and neon-headed Troll dolls. I wanted to scrub away the patina of stability and comfort my parents offered to mask the amorphous gunk of death and dysfunction that crudded my childhood home. My dad had begun videotaping our outings to riverside parks and craft festivals, forcing us to smile as we made memories to put off the inevitable. My mom insisted we buy a Sears photo package the year before she died. By that point, you could see the disease in all of us. I’ve looked at those pictures once since they were taken. The ghosts scared me off. The date is on the back of the photos: May 1992. In 1992, I wished for a life that would make me miserable, over-analytical and hyper-aware of the tragic beauty of the human condition, but in ways that I did not currently already know. I sought to live authentically as someone else. Someone equal parts Christian Slater’s quirky love-interest and Natalie Merchant. I thought it a fair compromise.

In 1993, I loved Nirvana, Lenny Kravitz, and Dr. Dre. I liked Toad the Wet Sprocket. I hated the Gin Blossoms. In 1994, my mom died. And so did Kurt Cobain. In 1995, I dye my hair cherry-cola red in an attempt to become Angela Chase. The hair dye is semi-permanent. I am still me.

What’s, perhaps, most strange is that Toad the Wet Sprocket evoke the ‘real’ of that time in my life more than almost any other band. At the time, they were just a signifier of false promise that rang true, the sincere score accompanying my coffeehouse daydreams. My pubescent soul took in their folky poetry and clung to it as much as I did to Johnny Depp’s mischievous gleam or a new addition to the MTV Buzz Bin, which is to say I buried it somewhere very deep within my burgeoning consciousness of what should forever shape my identity.

“All I Want” can play anywhere and I get nostalgic for a life that was never mine. This irrevocable loss feels so real that I conflate it with the actual loss that did take place. The song is a melancholic lilt—if there could be such a thing. During the verses, the singer embraces their purported honesty and tethers himself to the real: “The truth is not kind. And you’ve said neither am I.” And then he begins to hope, to evade the truth he’s grimly laid out, allowing himself to be beckoned by the siren’s call of “everything”. And he wants and he hears things on the evening air that he desperately wants to believe. By the time we reach the bridge, it’s clear he’s reached the core of his truth: the siren’s song is just a taunt of what will never be: “Though the air speaks of all we’ll never be/It won’t trouble me.” The singer’s easy dismissal of this deceit, in the guise of accepting what’s he’s lost, somehow seems more dishonest than anything. For we know, he will go on wanting and listening to the air “confessing everything” despite what will never be. Acknowledging the futility of this wanting doesn’t make it any less true. The ‘real’ will continue to defeat the real. He’s just pretending to be honest with himself.

This is how I hear “All I Want” in June 2012 while drinking a margarita beachside at a Jacksonville bar & grill. My dad’s ex-girlfriend’s daughter is getting married the next day. I am nursing the wounds of a book proposal rejection and trying to enjoy the Florida sun with my boyfriend. I am attempting to be real with myself. I am in my 30s now and no longer want the ’90s version of an honest life. I want what my life is naturally: its complications and disappointments confessing everything that I wouldn’t myself. Or this is what I say anyway. It might have been the tequila, but I couldn’t help it: It is fall of 1993. I am Neve Campbell coping with a family tragedy, clad in tasteful denim and a baggy Gap sweater. My boyfriend has eyes like Johnny Depp’s soul and his goatee circa 1994. The leaves are gold and the sky is dark. The moment is quiet, sad and real. The air outside is soft.

In Defense of Channing Tatum

Thu, 12 Apr 2012 12:20:00 -0400

I suppose this is my way of assessing whether or not I am in the minority more than anything. Channing Tatum isn’t so bad, right? In fact, he can be downright enjoyable or surprising in his ability to convey actual human emotion. There is a certain pathos present in those smoldering green eyes. An inchoate ferocity that can catch you off-guard, that can make you overlook that he is essentially the hulking, slabtastic epitome of beefcake supreme. He redeems himself somehow with his doltish charisma and makes you want to believe that what dwells within his tawny, chiseled warrior-flesh is pure, composed, questioning, cerebral.

It’s not that I’ve even seen many Tatum films. I saw Stop-Loss years ago and remember that he was believable as an Iraq soldier, but surely that isn’t much of a strech. I vaguely remember his brief appearance in Michael Mann’s Public Enemies as none other than Pretty Boy Floyd. What I recall most is my sincere disappointment that he was killed so early on and, therefore, wouldn’t have the opportunity to truly show his chops. Even then, before 21 Jump Street, it occurred to me that I had never seen these “chops” myself. It was too late: I’d invested absolute faith in the incipient reign of Tatum. And still the question lingered: Why in the hell?

I have no interest in the male physique on steroids…on steroids. The muscular estuaries that form Channing’s action figure torso leave me indifferent and, in fact, more ambivalent about my mysterious affinity for him. It’s not that a celebrity so hyper-male should raise my red flags, but I should have the good sense to take him completely off my radar. Perhaps my fondness can be lucidly explained if I review those shreds of trivia that create his “still under construction” persona.

I know he is a dancer—apparently a good dancer in the first film in the Step Up franchise. I am a total sucker for men who can move (see: Justin Theroux, Paul Rudd, Sam Rockwell). I also like men that are steadfast and romantic. Tatum has been with his now perky and pint-sized dancer wife for six years. Yet, none of this information sets him apart as an object worthy of my reverence. If anything, it proves that he is a simple and monogamous type with good motor coordination.

Here’s where things could get enlightening: Tatum was once an exotic dancer shaking his tailfeather in seedy Orlando, Florida. More impressive, he is co-producing a film (directed by Steven Soderbergh) about this particular point of time in his checkered past. This demonstrates that Tatum’s interior life is not necessarily pure, but it is unapologetic, humble and slightly wild. Yet, this discovery seems slight. It’s not a solid argument for cheering on a guy who played G.I. Joe and was the latest piece of menopausal eye-candy in a Nicholas Sparks adaptation.

So, maybe all I really need is some validation that these feelings aren’t completely ridiculous. Even though I’ve created a weak and confused defense for him, maybe if I put the unpacking of my thoughts/feelings on Channing Tatum out there in the public sphere, I will be one step closer to clarity of some kind.

Heard this song in an empty Carroll Gardens sports bar this week...

Thu, 12 Apr 2012 10:36:03 -0400

Heard this song in an empty Carroll Gardens sports bar this week and found myself enchanted by its breezy, U2 lite sound. It’s a song that is easily forgotten and, in most instances, its flash-in-the-pan mediocrity should be. But awash in whiskey, the sun-flecked cadence of its chorus is irresistible. Who doesn’t love rain in the summertime? Never mind that the band intends it to be some sort of allegory for faith’s redemption, the song’s image of a cool shower in the blaze of a summer sun remains soothing and just affecting enough for you not to be irked by the incredibly repetitive chorus. As the weather grows milder, I fully intend to bath in this innocuousness.

Tuff Turf

Tue, 10 Apr 2012 14:30:00 -0400

Big news: I finally saw Tuff Turf this weekend. For the longest, it had been the missing link in the Spader-Downey Jr. catologue. Now I can rest easy because I’ve seen every film starring the once angsty, baby-faced duo. In my mind, prior to viewing, Tuff Turf was essentially a prequel to the “young, debonair and without a fucking care” aesthetic I would grow to love to a maddening degree at the ripe ages of 8-10. The movie would document a time when “Downey Jr.” was just “Downey” and Spader didn’t talk like he was screwing you with every uttered morpheme.

However, I wouldn’t say that I saved the best for last. This is no Less than Zero. It’s not particularly sordid or sleazy or fantastically over-acted. People either have terribly normal, middle class names that aspire to be WASP-y like “Morgan” (Spader’s suburban rebel) or really bad fascimilies of working-class names like “Frankie” (the tritely named female heroine played by Real Housewife Kim Richards!) or Nick (the name for every studly prick in every 80s movie ever). This is a movie I would recommend to people who didn’t think The Wraith was “altogether that terrible” or masochistic folks that wish to endure a toe-cringing scene where James Spader performs a lipsynced piano serenade to a totally crimped-out Kim Richards.

The louche reptilian we instantly loved in Pretty in Pink is altogether absent here. Spader’s pretty mild-mannered as Morgan, riding his bike around and stirring up minor trouble in a working-class California neighborhood. He’s from Connecticut (I think… but it doesn’t really matter) and he’s caused some sort of mayhem at his old boarding school. He’s bright, sensitive, but just can’t stand still in the face of injustice. When will he ever learn? On top of these imperative life lessons about rebellion/identity/typical teenage bullshit, his dad lost his lucrative gig, had to move the family, inexplicably, to the West coast and now moonlights as a cabbie. Mom refuses to accept that her family’s tony lifestyle went out the window when the Cali sunshine came on in. She’s all Mary Tyler Moore in Ordinary People and favors her other son: the successful law school preppy who isn’t all brooding and messed-up in the head.

But don’t pity Morgan too much. He doesn’t want your petty sympathies. If a bunch of thugs run over his bike in the school parking lot, so be it. He’s not going to blink an eye. He accepts his plight with a quiet, fierce-eyed dignity and a signature leather jacket. Yep, these thugs, again inexplicably, have it out for Morgan. But Morgan has his eye out on the gang floozie, Frankie. With her Crystal Gayle tresses that’ve seen a 6 hour crimping iron session and her signature red ZZ top babe gear, she’s gonna get a full heaping of that creepy Spader Stare. In response, she will look at him blankly through a veil of fake lashes, with what I presume to be conflicted yearning. You see, Frankie is the girlfriend of head thug, Nick. He’s not a nice guy: he’s possessive, dumb and way too old to be in teen film. But Frankie’s never known she should desire anything else. Until…Morgan’s ten speed rode up and changed everything.

To resuscitate this pile-up of teen movie cliches, the film calls on the puppy-eyed vigor of Robert Downey (Jr.). As Jimmy, a cutie punk drummer that straddles the line between low-rent thug and big-hearted comedic relief, Downey Jr. steals any scene he’s in. Why that’s not hard to do in this crapshow, one can witness the rudiments of the flamboyant wit and undeniable charisma that made RDJ a star twice over.

Now here’s the best scene from TUFF TURF:

Jim Carroll, inexplicably, is in it rocking out with Jimmy in a downtown warehouse hangout. RDJ looks a bit awkward here on the drums, but of course, charmingly so. Everyone is goofily dancing like they are Carroll’s twisted, fresh-faced puppets. It’s like the world’s coolest, darkest and longest deodorant commercial, which is to say, I relished every tacky moment of it. Kim Richards makes a stunning entrance in a little grey, cut-out shoulder number. And yep, that’s about it. This is where Tuff Turf peaks.

From this point on, with the exception of the heavily choreographed scene that follows it, the turf becomes a lot less tuff and a lot more WTF…oh, nevermind, who cares. Oh wait, that’s not entirely true. There was this:

But besides that, Spader’s dad gets shot by Nick the Prick, Kim Richards looks around like a lost fawn, Morgan takes on the bullies and learns that…I have no idea. By the movie’s close, you are left thinking: “Did Kim Richards have formal dance training?” And: “To whom did Jim Carroll owe a favor?” Oh and: “Pretending to play the trumpet is always good for a laugh.”

Sometimes paying witness to your heroes’ humble beginnings proves to be less than rewarding. I’d rather see how far they have fallen rather than how much farther they had to climb. If I could go back in time and give advice to my two favorite quasi-Brat Pack Babes, I would say: “The turf will be tuff, but in the end, a bloated face coupled with a starring role on a fading adaptation of a British sitcom awaits one of you. For the other, a glorious comeback and eternal status as a strong, sassy, sex god. I am here to offer solace to the former.”

What I've Been Up To: An Incomplete but Fairly Chronological List of Events

Tue, 10 Apr 2012 11:55:17 -0400

• Teaching 8th and 9th grade at an all-girls’ institution in Brooklyn since September 2011.

• Mastering the art of discipline and the craft of self-preservation afloat the tides of adolescent rage and idiocy.

• Taking refuge in episodes of HBO’s Enlightenment. Seriously, Laura Dern is the goddess of quotidian hardship. Am I right?

• Numbing my battered pride with wine, hard cider, the feeble “Will they? Won’t they?” potential in Dan & Blair’s inevitable coupling on Gossip Girl.

• Discovering that scotch tape is at the root of most of the discipline problems I encounter.

• Discovering that I can be, in fact, perceived as the “b-word” by others, that I can set limits, that I can convey high expectations to stubborn minds. This feels good, but doesn’t necessarily take the sting out of overhearing a student exclaim that she “hates that lady” when referring to yours truly.

• Hearing the same obnoxious part of Drake’s “The Motto” escape the mouths of preteens for an interminable span of 5 months, praying that they will find something new that doesn’t reference Sir Mix-a-Lot in a way that lacks creativity. Hoping that they will stop asking you what “Tunche!” refers to even though you went to urbandictionary.com and think you now have a pretty good idea.

• Crying. On the inside. On the outside. Crying just because that room full of faces never shuts up. Just because they demand that you re-direct them at every turn. Just because they’re utterly exhausting.

• Breaking up my first fight, but not my last. • Hearing stories of pain scrawled in journals. Attempting to respond to them sensitively but not insincerely. This proves quite easy.

• Learning what my students listen to when enduring the purgatory that is adolescence. Here is the shortlist:

*DRAKE

*NICKI MINAJ

*CHRIS BROWN

*DRAKE

*TOKIO HOTEL

*ONE DIRECTION

*LOTS & LOTS OF K-POP

*NIRVANA

*DRAKE

*THE CURE

*WIZ KHALIFA

*MINDLESS BEHAVIOR

*LED ZEPPELIN

*30 SECONDS TO MARS

• Learning the highest compliment a teacher can receive from her students is the proclamation that she has “mad swag”.

• Learning that it’s difficult to pinpoint what is more insulting: a student throwing a chair while exiting your room, a still unidentified vandal defacing your office photo, a yawn, an eyeroll, a student remarking on your chapped lips to her snickering sidekick, a student exclaiming “What the fuck is this?” in reference to your midterm, a student who writes her name on an assignment giving you that ephemeral buzz of false promise and then writes nothing else.

• Smugly realizing that you really identify with Mrs. Coach on Friday Night Lights. The W.G. Snuffy Walden theme swells in your head as you roam the empty hallways that are about to be filled with 8th graders just released from lunch, the same 8th graders who will enter your class with atomic-level braggadacio and chaos. You silently repeat your new mantra: What would Tammy Taylor do? while thinking of Tim Riggins’ smile. This cures most 5th period ills.

• Carrying the lives of countless students on your conscience at all times.

• Talking to unwilling participants (friends, significant others, etc.) about every minute detail of your day, every witty exchange you had with a student, recounting every moment of that day’s lesson in vivid detail as if you are painting a Proustian scene of transcendent revelation . Readily ignoring the fact that to anyone who is not an educator, these anecdotes are both repetitive and tedious.

• Learning to love those that once detested you. Realizing that you have a soft spot for the rebels, the naysayers, the ones that shrug, curse, scoff, yell, and find it all futile and pointless. You realize that this is because they are sort of right. This unsettles you.

• Being consistently awe-inspired by the stories and art shared in students’ journals. There is one young lady you herald, without hesitation, as a genius. She wants to be a tattoo artist, but you think she could start her own movement. Her most recent drawing involved an octopus with a frosted donut head eating Five Guys fries with its tentacles. She also wrote a short story about grilled cheese clothing and Fran Drescher. Her heroes are Earl Sweatshirt and Lil’B. She is consistently dumbfounded that you know who these people are.

• Proudly observing that students can read the New Yorker without realizing it when you make them read a very slightly modified version of Sasha Frere Jones’ Drake piece and answer comprehension questions you created about Drake’s place in the annals of hip hop. Students work in reading discussion groups and you overhear such rich exchanges as Student 1: “Well…I think it’s because he stands out when he tells everyone about his life, wears his heart on his sleeve. Lil’ Wayne doesn’t always do that.” Student 2: “Yes, but he learned everything from Lil’ Wayne. He basically stole his style and added things here or there to it. Not that cool.”

• Teaching students that Drake totally owns that new literary term: the “likeless simile”. To them, this is mind-blowing. Delfonics.

• Voraciously reading The Hunger Games due to student recommendations.

• Brushing up on algebra, slope, y-intercepts and other confusing math concepts that I cannot confidently teach even after thorough review.

• Candidly and thoughtfully discussing Trayvon Martin with students. Candidly and thoughtfully discussing the issues of class and race with students and realizing that this conversation is truly enlightening for all of us.

• Masquerading at Starbucks’ pretending that I will fully revise my children’s book and get it published before middle age sets in.

• Working diligently after work at Starbucks, revising my children’s book and being dead-set on getting it prepped for inevitable publication.

• Feeling painfully incomplete because I have no time for writing anything besides my infinite to-do lists. Hoping, hoping, hoping that this will change. A co-worker likened me to a candle dimly flickering. This image is apt, but depressing.

• Feeling pathetic for feeling incomplete because I have no time for internet perusal, i.e. Facebook.

• Feeling hopeful because it’s Spring Break. Time for me to quietly re-enter the Tumblrverse.

Clarence: A Friend to All of Us.

Mon, 20 Jun 2011 09:56:32 -0400

Clarence: A Friend to All of Us.

I don’t speak German, but I can if you like…

Wed, 15 Jun 2011 10:16:35 -0400

I don’t speak German, but I can if you like…

iamwatchingjustified: But you give him a girl, it seems, a...

Tue, 14 Jun 2011 20:28:25 -0400

iamwatchingjustified:

But you give him a girl, it seems, a girl who you know’s gonna look good in a pale pink sundress (which she puts on a little while later, but still, you knew from the beginning) and all Raylan can do is let her talk.

I just have to say up front that I’m wary of that. I’m wary of the strong woman in the pale pink sundress, the one who shoots her husband and kisses the marshal all at once. That woman is a magical woman, altogether vulnerable and in complete control of her side-eyed sexuality. She’s hungry and she’s got wet hair all the time. And you let her talk because she talks but watching Raylan glance at that list of numbers, you think, you let her talk because she’s surely going to say something of value. They always do.

But let’s not kid ourselves. Timothy Olyphant is playing Raylan like the museum of masculinity’s equivalent of the pale pink sundress, his goddamned strong jaw and quick smiles and taking off his hat at the right moment, all the time. When he’s violent he’s so quick with it that you see the damage long before you recall his movements. And he makes jokes, lord help us, he’s got a sense of humor that you just know got forged in the mines of pain and suffering. hum-um. I nearly died when he made a joke, the first time, if anything sets this man apart from the ghost of Seth Bullock it’s the up-turned mouth in place of the clenched jaw. It’s the feeling that while Seth always knew what was the right thing to do, whether or not he was doing it, Raylan might not be sure. For all his he drew first for all his you make me pull, I’ll put you down, I mean, righteousness is best adopted to quell a man’s quiet uncertainties. The Bible is best misinterpreted to rob banks.

This is an incredibly well-written and astute assessment of the characters on Justified. It’s the best thing I’ve read all day and I am looking forward to more from Meghan. She already really understands these characters. Oh, how I miss Raylan Givens and the Crowder clan and Ava and Winona….

Pinball Music

Tue, 31 May 2011 17:01:00 -0400

There’s a certain kind of music that sounds like it should be played in a dark arcade that smells of french fry oil and smuggled liquor, that is redolent of Saturday nights spent in a decade not my own (perhaps the late ’70s?, early ’80s?) indulging in the foibles of youth. It’s the kind of music that would be good to hear while losing yourself in a downward spiral/cocaine haze, but it’s also the kind of music that you could listen to while cruising empty suburban streets with your first love.

A frenetic, propulsive energy accompanies this kind of music that is not unlike the hyper-speed pings and clacks that accompany a game of pinball.The music feels sweaty and confident in its own stamina as if it’s goal is to go quickly and carelessly in search of its own gratification. It’s capricious and insouciant, full of futuristic buzzes and bells that now sound charmingly anachronistic. I have decided to choose four songs that share some qualities of “pinball music” : Sniff ‘n’ the Tears’ “Driver’s Seat”, Sweet’s “Love Is Like Oxygen”, Head East’s “Never Been Any Reason” and Donnie Iris’s “Ah! Leah!” As you will soon discover, the categorization is rather arbitrary but when hearing these songs in succession, one could envision a fleeting era of randy kids in muscle tees and cropped tops rocking into the night and flirting in a dimly lit rec space near the Miss Pacman console. Some are partaking in amphetamines Some are revved up on their own sexed-up fumes. All of them are careening towards some unknown zenith of elation and desire.

Driver’s Seat - Sniff ‘n’ the Tears

This 1979 chart-topper is stupendously awesome apart from any discussion about musical genre. It took me nearly seven years to figure out who sang this damn song and then one mundane afternoon while folding laundry, it came on my Sirius radio and BLAMO! I was able to give credit where credit was due. Just listen to that relentless, adrenalized rhythm section propel and then fade into the taut cacaphony of other instruments pounding onward and upward as the band continues chugging like an engine in danger of going off the rails. But they never do. They are always in control and maintain the restless energy of the song with a deft sleekness. This is the “pinball music” anthem if ever there was one. It’s about getting behind the wheel of one’s life if only for “a little jiving on a Saturday night.” “Driver’s Seat” does not embrace the night’s offerings with a dark abandon, but rather with a youthful bouyancy that seizes whatever may come but holds tight on the reins.

Love Is Like Oxygen - Sweet

The best song that E.L.O. never wrote. These glam rockers take a swing at highly orchestrated rock and knock it into previously unexplored supernal realms of “pinball music” greatness. They’ve crafted a collage of palatable space-age rock sounds: the baroque classic rock intro, the soft power ballad vocals on the verse, the Jeff Lynne-inspired rollicking funkiness of the chorus melded with those helium vocal stylizings that then digress into proggy fathoms to be puncuated by a few false stops and then magically float out on a superbly fun disco-funk outro. “Love Is Like Oxygen” reflects the fickle, mercurial and yet totally fascinating mood swings of the young and restless. For those youthful in spirit, it is neither here nor there. It is nowhere or everywhere. Sweet pay tribute to the overblown urgency of the lovesick heart: every random nuance and note is captured here. It’s also the song that would play before at the night’s decline, the song one hears as dawn approaches and there is one last chance to grab the brass ring, one last moment to make your move before time encroaches and curfew rears its ugly head.

Never Been Any Reason - Head East

Oh my gosh, it’s just perfection. Absolute perfection. It figures that the epitome of classic rock would be a song by a band that no one remembers and never really had any staying power. An exuberant hymn to the powers of a good woman’s love. This is the song you want to play during your first kiss, during your Donkey Kong high score, during that moment when you realize hope is not lost and redemption is just in sight in the guise of that person at the bar, that person whose path you inexplicably crossed again, or that one special person you wronged terribly who has, inexplicably and incredibly, forgiven you. And yet, this doesn’t truly get at what Head East accomplished with this song, let alone does it let it stand apart from countless other rock tunes that are a sonic buoy in a sea of dissonance. I must asservate that “Never Been Any Reason” nails it in an almost spiritual way in which very few have from that amazingly composed synth symphonic opening, the staccato guitar riff, slow and steady, doggedly persistent and yet a wee bit anxious, the plaintive vocals thirsty with longing, pensive and yet strong, giving way to that choral cry of salvation that gives me goosepimples each and every time: “Save my life, I’m goin’ down for the last time/ Woman with the sweet lovin’, better than a white line/ Bring a good feelin’ ain’t had in such a long time/Save my life, I’m goin’ down for the last time.” This is proto-pinball music. The originator. Each time I hear it, I light up in all different places just like the electric mappings of a pinball game board. And you should, too.

Ah! Leah! - Donnie Iris

Donnie Iris is an unheralded pop genius and this is his masterwork. On first listen, 1980’s “Ah! Leah!” seems a parody of a straightforward rock tune a la Foreigner: the stubborn, overly forceful guitars, the horny bravado of the vocals that are borderline threatening juxtaposed with the hushed and lilting chorus that repeats a girl’s name with romantic desperation. Then you listen again and realize it’s incredibly sincere and brilliantly constructed. It’s a rock song, it’s a pop song, it’s of its time, it’s timeless. Then you watch the video and you can’t believe that this super nerdy-looking guy from the band that sang “Play That Funky Music” got away with it while managing to garner himself a Hot 100 hit. And even though you can vouch for its timelessness, you yearn for the days when a pop song like this could be played. It’s jubilant. It’s carefree. It’s fun. It’s ephemeral and yet seems designed to make memories around it. And maybe that’s really what “pinball music” is, the kind of music you made memories around when you were first shaping your musical tastes, your sexual preferences, your life, yourself. When everything was on fire and you’re someone else from one moment to the next, pinging back and forth with bells ringing in your head. When you were young. Of course, this isn’t the music of my adolescence…maybe pinball music is the aural equivalent of John Hughes’ movies for us who were born in the ’80s: it’s what we wanted our teenage years to sound like.

Further support for the argument that the heavy metal ethos is...

Thu, 26 May 2011 10:38:34 -0400

Further support for the argument that the heavy metal ethos is without pretension and withholds judgment of others while embracing populist views. JUDAS. PRIEST. on AMERICAN. IDOL. I wonder if America was ready for that much leather. Something tells me Howdy Doody Scotty was kissing his cross backstage.

I recognize there is a lot of Lady Gaga hate on the internet...

Wed, 25 May 2011 16:57:47 -0400

I recognize there is a lot of Lady Gaga hate on the internet (specifically Tumblr) and for the most part people are either ambivalent about this new album or incredulous about how it fits into Gaga’s dubious enterprise. It’s either too brightly earnest or too dark & sludgy or too trite to reflect the mythic and overripe persona with which she has persistently bombarded us. For the most part, I really enjoy it. And when I play “Judas” or “Heavy Metal Lover”, I’m not really thinking critically or evaluating Gaga’s narrative or career projection or insidious appeal to the masses through her glib and patronizing “We Are All Beautiful and Special Little Rebels” schtick. Even so, the underdog anthem “Bad Kids” had me from that snotty and snarling opening guitar riff. Let’s get one thing straight: the song is a hokey anthem intended to rally misunderstood teens and all of the world’s cast-offs. And yet, it is absolutely irresistible. It’s what John Parr’s ” St. Elmo’s Fire (Man in Motion)” would sound like if Laura Branigan aerobicized her way to a seedy new wave club and made out with Eddie Van Halen’s clone who happened to be a social worker for children. I am not sure that whacked description makes anyone want to listen to it, but I find that it creates a rather indelible image. I also just finished writing a children’s book about resilient youth with flaws/disabilities who learn to embrace who they are by forming bonds with others that share these hardships. I know that in the “Born This Way”-era in which we currently live, it seems like this idea has been overdone but it’s actually pretty important. And if some kid isn’t astute enough to realize that Gaga might be insincere in what she espouses in this song, does that really matter if he/she feels empowered or inspired by the music—or at the very least, enjoys those innocuous synth-y beats? I have listened to this song more times than I care to count. Not because I glean something significant from Gaga’s lyrics that changes my worldview (although I do find them amusing and sweet) but because it’s damn good to dance to in my apartment.

It feels like summer today. The unrelenting sunshine makes me...

Wed, 25 May 2011 13:22:32 -0400

It feels like summer today. The unrelenting sunshine makes me heady to the point of swooning and I get lost in future plans: bratwursts and cold ones, sunbathing on spare slabs of concrete while eating food from trucks, sweating while guzzling lukewarm smoothies, rollerskating in the park. It’s hard to concentrate on this computer monitor and sit in this office knowing I have at least 6 more hours here. I need a soundtrack that can whisk me off in sultry-summer style to boardwalks and carnivals, street fairs and late night roof parties and makes me forget that I am sequestered in this air-conditioned hellhole for a seeming eternity. I think this might do the trick. “Catch Me (I’m Falling) gets it all right. It’s freestyle at its best but with a few extras: Jade Starling’s outrageously emotive vocal (she emphasizes each and every word with dreamy surrender) and that grinding guitar breakdown just takes it over the top. Some might associate this song with Jon Cryer on skates. But I just think of it is a timeless jam that goes with summer like ocean with sand, sandals with shorts, hot sauce with anything…

So this morning I was watching a video of Iron & Wine...

Tue, 24 May 2011 14:34:18 -0400

So this morning I was watching a video of Iron & Wine covering George Michael’s “One More Try” on the AV Club site. And one of their employed goons had the gall to ask that bearded dude that I don’t normally care for too much if his love of the song was ironic. I was fuming, irate, brimming with uncontrollable hatred over such an inane question. I am sick of all this “ironic v. non-ironic” enthusiasm for songs from the ’80s or ’90s or whatever. Can’t we just love what we love and not have to rationalize its origins, whether they be nostalgic or perversely trendy or achingly sincere? Same goes for that Bon Iver’s Bonnie Raitt cover. I love that song and it’s a sweet & soulful cover. End of story. This got me to thinking about how much I love Bruce Hornsby. Always have, always will. It has nothing to do with irony. It has to do with how he hits the ivory keys with such fierce poetry and how when I hear this song while driving in a car through anywhere, my soul is awakened to the clear blue sky above me and I take a deep breath and say to myself: “Yes, I am alive. End of story.”

Possible Video Treatment for Lady Gaga's "Edge of Glory"

Wed, 18 May 2011 15:10:00 -0400

Okay. What about this: a Haus of Gaga loose interpretation of Bruce Springsteen’s “Glory Days” meets American Pastoral Pastiche.

The intro: It’s dark, foggy with thick moving clouds illuminated by a blue moon. The curtains of fog part to reveal Gaga in a basic welder’s uniform. She’s working hard, burning that midnight oil while enjoying the sound of her voice pleading about “tonight yeah baby, tonight yeah baby”. She takes off the welder mask in a choreographed fashion a la Flashdance to reveal a shocking blue halo of curls. Think the video vixen’s hair in Steve Winwood’s “Higher Love”. Her skin is shocking white, cadaverous in a hot Victorian Gothic novel type way, and her lips are navy blue but spangled with teeny silver star sequins. Her eyeshadow is deep red and from her long manicured fingertips white frenzied light emits like sparklers on the Fourth of July.

Cut to: Gaga playing in a neighborhood roadhouse to a crowd of bearded and denim-clad men. But they aren’t just your typical macho working-class heroes. They’re all gay because it’s a gay bar…called “Glory Gays”. Gaga is dressed in pirate scarves from head to toe a la Little Stevie. Instead of one gold hoop earring, she wears one good hoop around her body. A hula hoop that she spins continuously while singing. The Boss does not cameo. Instead, it’s Gaga again dressed in scandalously short denim shorts and the iconic red bandana placed precariously in her open fly. Clarence does cameo and the band launches into the first chorus as the bearded factory workers take off their hardhats and unbutton their denim button downs to reveal that they all have tattoos that say “Edge of Glory” encircled by flames and skulls.

Cut to: A cornfield. Gaga wears a dress made out of corn husks and her hair is in…yep, cornrows. She writhes around in a way that is disarming because it’s obliquely sexy and not overtly so.

Cut to: Quick shots of Gaga in a baseball uniform blowing bubbles and grabbing her crotch suggestively in a way that references everything from Michael Jackson to Roseanne Barr to the hegemony at large.

Cut to: A war field. Gaga is dressed as a haute couture George Washington with powdered wig and wooden teeth. She launches a cannon that is really just an oversized mascara wand. She plasters the redcoats in Diorshow Blackout and the whole army writhes around in the cosmetic sludge, but this time it’s overtly sexy. Very sexy. And subversive.

Cut to: A bigger corn field at dusk. Gaga wears nothing but a barely buttoned denim button-down and her hair/makeup done a la Rosie the Riveter while straddling a massive bulldozer covered in glitter. Cue sax solo. Rob Lowe in a baseball uniform that exposes his midriff emerges from corn field to play the solo, reliving those halcyon days of St. Elmo’s Fire. Once the solo ends, Rob is again enveloped by the corn. Video ends with Gaga driving away atop the bulldozer, flexing her arm muscles and snarling in a way that is somewhat sexy but mostly confusing, pointless and yet remains intriguing.

Here I Go Again...

Tue, 17 May 2011 17:05:41 -0400

It might not be major news to most of you, but tomorrow night Whitesnake plays Irving Plaza. To me, this is monumental. It leaves me breathless and excited and, ultimately, crestfallen because I cannot find one single living soul to attend this night of guitar-driven innuendo and pageantry with me.

After first hearing of this show and sending out my giddy emails to certain people that have since been forgiven for their rather curt and flippant refusals, I stowed my dreams of seeing David Coverdale parade around as though he still was sexually viable somewhere deep inside my vault of hair metal dreams perpetually deferred.

And then…this weekend, that vault came unhinged by an encounter with a bartender at Brooklyn’s Gutter, the bar/bowling alley hybrid with well-seasoned Bloody Marys that allow for the most intense intoxication in the least amount of time. By the time I reached my high score of the day (163), I was on my third and feeling particularly enthused about most anything. Prior to this, the bartender and I started chatting about Judas Priest’s later years and then I informed him that Metallica were “pussies”, especially that “New Age wimp, Kirk Hammett.” I think this was when he decided I was good people. Most metal fans just need to sniff out a sense of loyalty and an intimation of heated passion about one of the Big 4 (Anthrax, Metallica, Megadeth, Slayer) before they decide that you are one of them. There is rarely snobbery in evidence and I’ve never had to participate in a game of dick swingin’ in order for my opinions to be respected, which is somewhat surprising considering heavy metal is über-masculine with its perverse üse of ümlauts, loaded references to both male and female anatomy, and a massive archive of backstage tales that would make Caligula blush.

Anyway, by my fourth Bloody Mary, I had been invited to attend Whitesnake with this super amiable bartender and his wife. We started discussing the ouevre of Whitesnake and he might have mentioned his favorite songs, but I was too preoccupied with whether or not I would allow my inebriated state to actually coerce me into divulging mine. And I did. As I’ve mentioned before, “Is This Love?” is my most beloved of their catalog. Hell, it’s one of my favorite songs of all time. I listen to it at least once a day and have done so for several years. To most “real” metal fans, this is probably considered obscene. But I also had been operating under the assumption that even admitting to liking Whitesnake was somewhat of a faux pas—that is, if metal fans were to abide by any social norms. In this instance, I did not lose any points. This dude smiled and nodded enthusiastically and then we talked a bit about “Slide It In” and “Bad Boys” before I got sidetracked by the many conversations I was having with other friends about several other topics for which I expressed equal zeal.

And then there it was: that wickedly sultry intro that sounds like a wall of electric strings blown through a gigantic fan, tossing everyone’s hair and hearts about in a sexy, brooding fashion. To be honest,it also sounds a bit like the intro to Bon Jovi’s “Livin’ on a Prayer.” My heart skipped a beat and I stood there frozen. In this neighborhood bar, in the late afternoon, I was hearing one of my favorite songs in the world. The bartender winked. There was a kinship formed, a moment of understanding shared. And then Coverdale began to sing and I squealed, dropping my umbrella in a clumsy fashion and awkwardly bending down to retrieve it. But still, in that brief moment, I felt as effortlessly awesome as Coverdale himself.

I guess the point of this tale is a) The next best thing to seeing Whitesnake live is hearing one of their hits blasted at full volume as a friendly dedication to your’s truly; b) by rehashing this experience, I hope to not harbor too much resentment towards those fools who refuse to attend the “still of the night” my dreams came true; and c) it’s probably best to not join a couple of married strangers to watch a loud and raunchy performance of songs called “Slide It In” and “Slow n Easy”, right?

Budget Fashionistas: jakec: “A smart woman said something smart in 2008 and then two dudes...

Tue, 03 May 2011 12:28:43 -0400

Budget Fashionistas: jakec: “A smart woman said something smart in 2008 and then two dudes...:

jakec:

“A smart woman said something smart in 2008 and then two dudes in 2011 told her she was wrong and to stop complaining about how music criticism doesn’t engage with its audience because writing is an important form of self-expression and also they don’t like reading other people’s…

Let me just say…I just finished my thesis (yay!) and was informed that a conversation was going on Tumblr about something I wrote three years ago, so I came by to check it out. I was both flattered and perplexed by the commotion that was ensuing. I don’t really remember writing that post, but I still think I had a few salient points. However, I would just like to point out that I often did seek to “be the change I wanted to see” by writing music criticism in the way that I envisioned it and sharing it with others. I think, for the most part, I do not just unnecessarily complain on my blog. In fact, I really do try to keep snarkiness to a minimum. I hope to start writing on this site again soon and joining in these dialogues. I must say it was a little bit strange to see my name used so often knowing that I was off somewhere in the real world working, eating tacos, watching TV and somewhere in the blogosphere some really smart folks were talking about me. The peculiar world of the internets.

the violence of handcrafted dolls: reflections on my pitchfork review

Fri, 26 Nov 2010 14:51:04 -0500

the violence of handcrafted dolls: reflections on my pitchfork review:

theviolenceofhandcrafteddolls:

I learned from friends that the pitchfork review of False Priest was less than good, so I avoided reading it until tonight. I gathered from PF’s review of Skeletal Lamping that we were not a darling of their blog, but I had hoped that we’d get a slightly less disappointing writer this time around…

I found this super amusing. Glad to know that we are on the same page.

Thoughts on Kanye and Death and Other Stuff

Tue, 23 Nov 2010 15:57:00 -0500

I feel as though I am missing something. This Kanye album: it’s fairly good. I’d give a few tracks repeated listens, but I just can’t seem to frame it as this 21st century magnum opus. In order for me to view it as such, I would have to form an instant and strong attachment to the songs and also something somewhere would have to resonate. And deeply. I feel a complete disconnect from West’s creepy, weird, fantasy; I think it’s because I am not a megalomaniacal celebrity who aspires to be the second coming of the King of Pop. I have no point of reference. Better yet, I do not wish to have one. I am not even sure Yeezy wants me to connect. This is his fantasy, after all. He’s running the show. I am just privileged to witness the results of his mad ambition.

Like Ewing (who really nailed it, by the way), I rather enjoyed 808s and Heartbreak as a reflection of West’ mourning for a lost love and a departed mother. It was icy, barren, desolate. A hollowed-out, detached inhuman voice calling out of nowhere for someone, anyone, to not only listen but to try to understand. The album asked for my empathy and I did not hesitate to try and see how this man who had lost his only ties to normalcy and now was set adrift to face the flashing, glaring lights of fame alone might feel. My mother died when I was young and confused. In some small way, I could relate.

Those early stages of mourning, denial and anger, are both equally represented on 808s. The anger and hurt funnelled through autotune as if to deny that these were Kanye’s actual feelings. He offers himself a comfortable distance from the actual pain by expressing himself in a way that people did not normally associate with him: by singing. Yes, West wallowed in self-pity. Yes, he had grandiose ideas about his Art and how his own personal reflections were somehow important to us all. But considering how he reached a new pinnacle of celebrity while his world fell apart, I could forgive him most of it. Especially since 808s spawned some outstanding tracks: “Paranoid,” “Street Lights”, “Coldest Winter.”

Now, we have My Beautiful, Dark, Twisted Fantasy. The use of the pronoun already putting the audience at a remove. From what I can gather, the album is Kanye’s demented, self-indulgent view of the pitfalls of celebrity writ large and fleshed out in all the nauseatingly rich color and florid detail of a rococo painting. It’s ambitious. It’s brimming with imagination, innovation, and a helluva lot of ego. And this is all great and commendable. But is it interesting? No. Not to me.

Beneath the bravado and the confidence of this epic work is a rather vulnerable unhinged and misguided man-child. A perfectionist, a people-pleaser, a coddled mama’s boy that has yet to reconcile what it all means. Now that’s interesting, but I don’t think that is what Kanye wants us to see. He wants us to see someone who doesn’t give a fuck, who is in complete control, someone who is aware of the bullshit and is tired of it more than anyone. He’s someone who is using his own celebrity to transcend the crass world of fame and fortune that has reared him and ascend straight to the upper echelons of ART. I’m not buying it.

Viewed through the lens of the stages of mourning, MBDTF would represent West’s bargaining stage. A stage in which the normal reaction to feelings of helplessness and hopelessness is the need to regain control. This meticulously crafted album surely seems the work of a control freak. On “Runaway,” Kanye makes a vain attempt to redeem himself by pushing us away. He’s a douchebag, an asshole, a scumbag. He’s going to make that call before any of us can. And then he’s going to again put us at a far, far distance by asking us to get away as fast as we can. West gives the impression of vulnerability on this track, but really he isn’t letting us see anything that he doesn’t want us to see. It’s a tableaux, a brilliantly ornate facade devoid of any true reality.

I’d rather have what’s real without all the trimmings. I’d rather have The Fantasy, raw and uncut. Or rather cut down to the bone. I want Kanye to really lose his head, to relinquish control to the muses that dance in his brain and get dirty and dangerous. When that happens, I’ll be interested.

"If we are serious about improving our schools, we will take steps to improve our teacher force, as..."

Tue, 09 Nov 2010 13:36:12 -0500

“If we are serious about improving our schools, we will take steps to improve our teacher force, as Finland and other nations have done. That would mean better screening to select the best candidates, higher salaries, better support and mentoring systems, and better working conditions. Guggenheim complains that only one in 2,500 teachers loses his or her teaching certificate, but fails to mention that 50 percent of those who enter teaching leave within five years, mostly because of poor working conditions, lack of adequate resources, and the stress of dealing with difficult children and disrespectful parents. Some who leave “fire themselves”; others were fired before they got tenure. We should also insist that only highly experienced teachers become principals (the “head teacher” in the school), not retired businessmen and military personnel. Every school should have a curriculum that includes a full range of studies, not just basic skills. And if we really are intent on school improvement, we must reduce the appalling rates of child poverty that impede success in school and in life.”

- Diane Ravitch is my education reform hero. She says everything I’ve been wanting to say about why Guggenheim’s “Waiting for Superman” is problematic and reductive propaganda, but in a way that is brilliant and highly persuasive. Her book, The Death and the Life of the Great American School System, is a must-read for anyone interested in the current state of education. Which is everyone right? And so this concludes the championing of my pet cause.